Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, While the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide; And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow'd house: I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire: Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier; And this ditty, after me, Sing, and dance it trippingly. First, rehearse your song by rote, To each word a warbling note: Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place. LULLABY You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, Come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby. Weaving Spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby. SONG TELL me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed: and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell: I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell. _THOMAS CAMPION_ CHERRY-RIPE THERE is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which, when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. LAURA ROSE-CHEEKED Laura, come; Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other Sweetly gracing. Lovely forms do flow From consent divinely framed; Heaven is music, and thy beauty's Birth is heavenly.